


would you need me

by bracelets



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, and apparently I can only write moderately smutty things in this paragraphy fade-out style, as finished as I can get it, from the wip folder, originally for a kink prompt meme i think, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:10:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracelets/pseuds/bracelets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looked – perhaps more than ever against the backdrop of Luna – like a student dressing up as a teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	would you need me

“Hello, Professor!” There were fingers hovering into view, obscuring the page she was reading. “It’s me!” 

“So I see.” River lowered the book; the fingers disappeared and she had an unobstructed view of the Doctor frowning as if saying, _I gave you a warning of 1.2 seconds before opening your door; as if that deprecatingly cheerful little melody of knuckle-knocks on your door could have been anyone else; why are you still sitting there?_

He looked – perhaps more than ever against the backdrop of Luna during office hours – like a student dressing up as a teacher, with the elbow pads and the jacket with the slightly too wide shoulders and the half-tamed hair. That he had bent sharply at the waist for the sole purpose of reaching across the desk and waving his hands in her face did not age him much.

“I like your office, by the way,” he said. “It’s very oblong.”

“You always say that.” She returned to her reading, or at least, pretended to.

 

 

“So, fancy a ride in the TARDIS?” He was hip and leg onto her desk, right next to her 1980s Earth pen set; his thigh next to her elbow; his scent overpowering that of coffee. She tried to treat him as an everyday occurrence, when he hadn’t been for a long time; the room and the desk and the pen set were so much older now, and he was very much the opposite.

Still he always came with the same question. Sometimes, he brought his adventure and his running and his adrenaline. Then there were other times; times when he brought his coiled-tight-ness and his white lies and didn’t think she could tell the difference. Didn’t think she could see it, lurking in the back of his eyes; the ulterior motive.

She’d felt him walk about her space aimlessly; straighten his bowtie in the reflection of the gathering night in the window; poke at every single one of her credentials; fondle a tiny vase, drop it, bounce it on a knee. 

He’d given in and sat down, then. 

“I have work to do,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s more important right now.”

“More important? _Archaeology?_ ”

“I’m giving a lecture.”

He picked up her coffee mug, sniffed at its content. Made a face. “On what?”

 

 

“And those are the levels of the Howling Halls.” She’d run through the basic points of her research dutifully, speaking to him like she would a student on his first day, wishing he’d been further away than two feet. His eyes were on hers as she spoke, and she could see in their depths a dark emerald glitter that was just the titillating side of condescending; that ulterior motive maturing. He probably thought she didn’t notice that, either. “Any thoughts? Order of ascension got wrong? Something off about the lunar calendar? Any annoying anachronisms?”

“Really, Professor, you make it sound like you don’t trust your research.” 

She stood up, brushed a speck of stardust from his shoulder; they were almost the same height now. “Oh, that’s right. Why am I asking you? You’re just a Doctor.” 

“There’s nothing just about that.”

“Why are you here, love?”

“You asked me to come,” he said, worked the psychic paper out of an inner pocket, and –triumphantly, adorably – held it in front of her nose. “You sent me _this_.” 

_This_ was a dull request in brown pen, at odds with the wordless need radiating off of it. River recognised it well. “That was years ago.”

“Does it matter?”

“It means you’re really very late,” she said, placing a hand firmly on the back of his neck and pulling herself toward him.

 

 

His lips were a bit too soft and his tongue a bit too shy, but she could ignore that as long as there was that pulse of lust trickling down her sixth sense. 

His hands hovered between her shoulders and her hips. The blush had drained from his face. “What should I…”

“You…” She curled her fingers around his braces; followed them all the way down; undid the clasps. “Should tell me your thoughts on the levels of the Halls.”

“Yes, well, then I _will_.”

 

 

River eased onto the desk; that was what she’d wanted when she’d sent for him, and so it was what she wanted now. Her suit was hampering them both in all the best ways; it was tight, severely cut and dark blue, and she was very glad she’d worn it that day.

He teased her skirt upward with mild success; stopped, ran a hand along the tights, snagged it on some callus; sighed. “Is this what professors wear this century?”

“It’s what I wear. Today, at least.”

 

 

Her knickers were real cream lace, 19th century earth. They were stiff and uncomfortable, but she dressed for occasions like this.

He hooked fingers between the lace and her hipbone. “Your, ah, clothes have no elasticity!” 

“Oh, I _know_.”

 

She braced one foot against the chair and the other on his back, the tweed tickling her calfs. The tights were in the way, an extra layer she didn’t need.

The Doctor’s fingers were working their way through the mass of her ponytail, the tugs where a hair or two caught between his knuckles matching those of the bunched-up damp lace, finally pushed to the side, as it chafed at her inner thigh. 

 

 

“You know, I’ve had a revelation about oxytocin,” he said, pecking her on the lips.

“You’re talking about chemistry in a historian’s office.”

“Are you going to tell on me?”

“It depends.”

 

 

“A rather creaky desk you’ve got, isn’t it?” he asked, straightening his bowtie to perfection, the blood having returned to his cheeks in large quantities.

She dug her nails into the faux-wood beneath her. “It’s a perfectly fine desk.” 

“Should I clean this up, or…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

She tugged her knickers, cooling unpleasantly, off and threw them into a corner. Since the skirt was finally at a decent height, she left it there.

He re-tightened his braces, looking impatient. “So… are you coming? TARDIS - just outside.”

She brushed some sweaty curls away, leant back on sore elbows and took a steadying breath; the lace underwear was definitely a good investment. “I told you… I have work to do.” 

“I thought I implied it was pointless.”

“So you decided to come here, while I was _working_ , take up my time, because you find it pointless?” 

Having picked up on her tone of voice, he raised his eyebrows. “River?”

“Doctor?”

“Oh! I should… make up for it?”


End file.
